Five Senses Arc
by Ryuuza
Summary: [FujiRyo] In which there is Fuji, Ryoma, and vaguely smutty situations involving their five senses. Unrelated one-shots, Ryoma-torture, and fun for all. Well, for Fuji at least.
1. Taste

Fandom: Prince of Tennis  
Pairing: FujiRyo  
Rating: R  
Disclaimer: Not mine.

Note: Part 1 of 5 from the **Five Senses Arc**.  
Feedback: Yes, please.  
Archive: As you will. Just let me know.

Dedication: **Taste** is **kasugai (underscore) gummie**'s birthday giftfic. From a while back…

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**Taste  
**by Ryuuza

Ryoma was pinned to the kitchen counter, panting, and staring up wide-eyed at a pair of knowing blue eyes. "Fuji-senapi," he gasped out, hands clutched tight around the edge of the counter.

"I told you not to touch the cake," Fuji whispered, smirking.

The younger boy recalled walking into the kitchen five minutes ago and being warned by his senpai—dressed in a pink apron and whipping up some sort of frosting in a bowl—not to touch the chocolate cake cooling on the counter. He recalled the smudge of pink icing on Fuji's cheek, a flash of irritation at the color (hardly appropriate for Ryoma), and his ensuing attempt to swipe it off his boyfriend.

He also recalled Fuji's mouth capturing his finger and sucking it slowly, languidly, as Fuji looked at him, bangs falling over his eyes.

He remembered the twisting of his stomach and the blood rushing to his cheeks and how he jerked his finger away hastily.

Then Fuji had smiled and, swiping his own finger through the frosting, proffered the digit to Ryoma. "I'm baking you a cake, Ryoma," he'd said. "Want a taste?"

So Ryoma had leaned forward and wrapped his mouth around the finger and the frosting, licking off the sweetness of the whipped topping and running his tongue along Fuji's skin. And those blue eyes had darkened and Ryoma had found himself pinned to the counter.

"I didn't touch the cake," he protested now, after five minutes of being very thoroughly kissed.

"Hmm…is that so?" Fuji sounded only vaguely interested as he began investigating how many layers Ryoma had dressed himself in to ward off the cold. "Then I'll have to come up with a better excuse to molest you." His lips attached themselves to Ryoma's neck, sensitive and warm and only recently divested of its protective scarf.

Ryoma's breath hitched.

It wasn't always like this, with Fuji initiating things while Ryoma lost himself in a rush of dizziness and heat that left him flushed with emotions he'd come to identify with the other boy: wanting, painful and sharp, and possessiveness. Sometimes Ryoma was the one who tugged Fuji out of the line at the mall and dragged him into some obscure corner to kiss, unless it was too crowded or they had obligations to fulfill first, and then Ryoma would sit and itch and be irritable, as welcoming to whoever happened to be obstructing his freedom to touch Fuji as coming home and discovering a rhinoceros had nested on your dinner table.

But it was always the same swarm of awareness that tingled along his skin, the same heat low in his belly, the same feeling of belonging.

And, of course, it was always Fuji.

Ryoma raised his hands and attempted to slip them up the back of Fuji's shirt. Find the apron strings in his way, he untied them and pulled away from Fuji long enough to drag the apron over his head. This was far better than the homework session he'd expected today.

Fuji's tongue made a languorous trip along his jaw bone.

Ryoma's hand clenched on Fuji's shoulder momentarily, stomach tightening, and then quickly went to work stripping his boyfriend of his shirt.

"This'll be our first time in the kitchen," Fuji commented pleasantly, rubbing his hand idly down Ryoma's side and sliding between his legs in a seemingly accidental move. "I'm glad you bothered the cook."

Ryoma's breath shortened further, blood rushing away from his head and leaving him dizzy. He jerked his hips against Fuji's, grinning when he elicited a gasp.

"You talk too much," he said shortly, eyes glinting, and silenced the tensai—who was still smiling as he left a heated trail with his mouth down Ryoma's chest—by jerking him up and planting a fierce kiss on his mouth.

Who needed cake?

Ryoma had Fuji.

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To go: **Taste**, Hear, Smell, Sight, Touch

Please review!


	2. Hear

Fandom: Prince of Tennis  
Pairing: FujiRyo  
Rating: R  
Disclaimer: Not mine.

Note: Part 2 of 5 from the **Five Senses Arc**.  
Feedback: Yes, please.  
Archive: As you will. Just let me know.

* * *

**Hear  
**by Ryuuza 

"Nngh," said Ryoma.

"What was that, Ryoma-kun?" asked Nanako pleasantly.

Ryoma arched as a warm hand slid along his upper thigh. "Ah, I—probably won't be home 'til lunch," he said into the phone, twisting around to glare at his boyfriend. "Or maybe later."

Fuji smiled innocently at him and lowered his head to drop a soft kiss on the back of Ryoma's neck.

"Oh, that's fine. Are you having fun at Fuji-san's?"

"Um." An arm snaked around his middle and tugged him backwards, stumbling across the futon into Fuji. "Ye-ess," he hissed as Fuji's hand fondled him unrepentantly. Those slender fingers stroked gently, knowingly, and made Ryoma shudder. "I—I have to go," he stuttered. Fuji rocked his hips forward and Ryoma moaned.

"Oh! Wait, Ryoma-kun, is Fuji-san coming over for dinner?"

"Nngh," repeated Ryoma, his grip on the phone white-knuckled as Fuji slipped the hand not between Ryoma's legs under the thin T-shirt the younger boy had on. "I, um, _god_…" He panted, losing focus on the conversation.

Fuji brought his mouth close to Ryoma's ear, breaths soft and warm. "Answer your cousin, Ryoma," he whispered, his hands moving rhythmically in time with his thrusts. "It's rude to leave her hanging, ne?"

Ryoma squirmed in his arms. "_Ah_," he moaned, torn between hanging up, hitting Fuji, or just giving into the teasing that was sending his coherency spiraling out of control. "I think so," he gasped into the phone, hoping his answer made some sort of sense.

Nanako sounded thrilled. "That's wonderful!" she exclaimed happily. "I'll be sure to cook something appropriate."

"That's…nice," Ryoma said, eyes crossing when Fuji pinched his nipple. He bit his lip to forestall another low moan. "_Fuji_," he hissed under his breath. He couldn't _do_ this. He was on the phone with his cousin; he couldn't deal with his sadistic boyfriend and his exhibitionist streak right now! Ryoma couldn't let Nanako figure out what was going on right now or she'd let it slip to Nanjiroh and God knew what his baka oyaji would do then.

He groaned at the mere thought.

"Saa, saa…"

"Do you know what his favorite food is?"

"Stop it!" he demanded, even as his hips bucked involuntarily into Fuji's hand. His head was spinning and it was hot, so hot…he could feel the blood pounding in his veins and the familiar tension coiling up in his stomach. His breaths came faster, his free hand clutching at Fuji's thigh. _Oh god…_

"Ryoma-kun?"

Fuji stroked him again, accompanying the caress with a nip at the tender skin under his jaw. "Wasabi rolls!" he blurted out, and came. He slumped back against his boyfriend, shudders still wracking his body.

"…really?" Nanako sounded doubtful. "Ah…well, I can make a few, I'm sure. He doesn't have anything against fish, does he?"

"I like fish," Fuji commented thoughtfully, licking his fingers. He smiled down at Ryoma, who was too exhausted to do anything but glare at him. "They wriggle and flop around quite nicely."

Ryoma's expression darkened. "Fuji," he said, scowling.

"Hm?" His cousin sounded confused. "Ryoma-kun?"

"Fuji-senpai likes fish fine," he said bluntly. "I have to go. Bye." He turned the phone off and dropped it onto the mess of blankets tangled on the futon. Then he resumed glaring at Fuji.

Fuji returned his gloom with a sunny smile.

"…That. Was. Not. Necessary," Ryoma muttered, golden eyes narrowed.

"Saa, I thought it was fun."

"…I'm never sleeping over again."

Fuji opened his eyes. "Don't say that, Ryoma," he chided, pressing Ryoma onto his back and straddling him. "That's not very fair of you. Don't I deserve a good boyfriend too?"

The younger boy continued glaring at him. "What makes you think you're a good boyfriend?"

"Well…" said Fuji, smirking and trailing a finger across Ryoma's stomach, "I make sure you enjoy yourself, don't I?"

Ryoma thought about this for a moment. "Not while I'm talking to my _cousin_," he said at last, and then he lunged, flipping them over until he was on top of Fuji. His grin was triumphant…and a shade evil. "You had your fun, senpai. Now it's my turn."

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To go: **Taste**, **Hear**, Smell, Sight, Touch 

Please review!


	3. Smell

Fandom: Prince of Tennis  
Pairing: FujiRyo  
Rating: R  
Disclaimer: Not mine.

Note: Part 3 of 5 from the **Five Senses Arc**.  
Feedback: Yes, please.  
Archive: As you will. Just let me know.

Dedication: **Smell** is for **Nightengale13** because I can (and, oh yes, because she's wonderful).

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**Smell  
**by Ryuuza

"Roses," Ryoma said impatiently, shifting in his seat. "Fuji," he complained, "can we _stop_ now?"

Fuji surveyed the scene, an unseen proprietary smile on his face. They were in Fuji's room, all prim and proper as it should be, except for the fact that the younger boy was bare from the waist up, situated in a wooden chair, and bound hand and foot with silk scarves. Oh, and blindfolded, Fuji noted with amusement.

"Not yet," he said sweetly, running the long-stemmed white rose along the line of Ryoma's bare chest and eliciting a broken breath before replacing it among the various items scattered across his bed. His fingers closed around a delicate wooden fan and he snapped it open, waving it gently through the air and fanning himself.

In his seat, Ryoma twitched in dread.

Oh, Fuji did so love having Ryoma at his mercy. He held the scented fan near Ryoma's face. "What about this?" he asked.

Ryoma inhaled. "Sandalwood," he said easily.

Fuji's eyes twinkled and he leaned forward swiftly and pressed a kiss to Ryoma's mouth. "Well done," he murmured against his lips.

Ryoma twitched and bit him.

Chuckling, the tensai pulled back and ran his tongue over his lower lip. "Saa," he said with mild reproach. "And I was just about to untie you. I guess you prefer to stay the way you are now, ne, Ryoma?"

"Fuji," growled the younger boy.

A slender finger tapped his nose. "Be good or I'll gag you too. And that would spoil all the fun." Moving back toward the bed, ignoring his boyfriend's pout, Fuji lay the fan down and swept his gaze over the assortment thoughtfully. After a moment, he returned to Ryoma, standing in front of his chair in silence.

Ryoma shifted in his seat uneasily, tugging halfheartedly at his binds. "What?" he asked crossly, sensing the other boy even with his blindfold on.

Fuji lifted his hands and fisted them suddenly in Ryoma's hair, jerking his head up even as Fuji's came down to meet him, their mouths crashing together with something just short of complete gracelessness.

Their mouths were familiar with each other, warm and welcoming. Fuji's tongue slipped easily into Ryoma's mouth, touring with a knowing surety. Ryoma made a soft noise, plaintive, as he felt his annoyance at the tensai melt away. He struggled to get closer, tugging at Fuji's lower lip in a gentler echo of his earlier action.

One of Fuji's hands slid from Ryoma's hair to trail along his jaw ands lid over his neck. It rested on his pulse, stroking. Ryoma whimpered, wishing his hands were free, wishing he could _touch_ the older boy.

Then, suddenly, Fuji was gone, retreating hastily and Ryoma couldn't even see _why_. All his senses graced him with was a sudden chill and the sound of harsh breathing from a few feet away.

"Fuji?" he asked hoarsely, licking his lips.

There was something akin to a small moan and then the rasp of a zipper broke through the air. Ryoma froze.

He couldn't be— Fuji couldn't—wouldn't— Would he? Oh god, _was he_?

His heart pounded in his throat, making breathing difficult, as Ryoma sat very, very still, trying to keep his breaths quiet so he could hear better.

A hitch of breath—Ryoma's mind spun dizzily, he was too familiar with the sound, more often than not being the cause of it—the sounds of skin on skin—he bit his lip—ragged breathing, a quiet, longing sound—he shuddered, arousal jumping along every millimeter of skin. He wanted, needed, god, _wanted_ to be on Fuji. Touching him. Making his blue eyes cloud over with need, eliciting these moans and gasps, hard-earned proof of Fuji's relinquish of control…

Fuji's breath was coming faster, the rustling of his movements increasing in pace, but he said nothing. Needy sounds escaped him and wrapped sinuously along Ryoma's groin but no complete word slipped past his lips.

_Fuji_, Ryoma thought, tense and all-too-aware and on edge.

And then it was over and he heard the long breath sighing from Fuji's lips, the small noise of content, and found his fists clenched, nails digging into his palm.

"Untie me," he demanded, voice slightly unsteady. "Fuji."

A rustle, a brush of warm air, and Fuji was beside him again, kneeling before him, if his instincts were right. "Ne, Ryoma," the older boy said breathily. "Do you recognize this?" Fingers, still slick, were raised to his face, the smell emanating from them sharp and familiar.

"Fuji-senpai's come," Ryoma said sweetly, then lifted his head and caught those fingers in his mouth. He tongued them thoroughly, stomach tight and nerves afire, but pleased when Fuji let another soft whimper escape.

He let the fingers slip out of his mouth, running his tongue around his mouth and savoring the slightly bitter taste. "Now untie me, Syuusuke."

Warm arms reached around him and then his hands fell free, his blindfold following soon after. Ryoma stared into the dusky blue eyes trained on his. "What do I smell like?" he asked, expecting only one answer.

The eyes flashed and the familiar smile reappeared. "Sex," said Fuji.

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To go: **Taste**, **Hear**, **Smell**, Sight, Touch

Please review!


	4. Sight

Fandom: Prince of Tennis  
Pairing: FujiRyo  
Rating: R  
Disclaimer: Not mine.

Note: Part 4 of 5 from the **Five Senses Arc**.  
Feedback: Yes, please.  
Archive: As you will. Just let me know.

Dedication: **Sight** is shameless bribery for **confabulation**, whom I adore and love.

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**Sight  
**by Ryuuza

Fuji Syuusuke didn't have any particular fondness for sharing. This was why none of his photography projects for school contained photos from his personal collection. Certainly, he had one Ryoma album he was delighted to share with the public, to his boyfriend's profound embarrassment, but there was another for private exhibit only; some things were not meant for prying eyes.

And while abstract skyscapes and black-and-white stills of lashes against cheek were scattered over his public portfolio, his home studio was a completely different matter.

"I'd get kicked out of school if anyone knew about these," Ryoma had said to him before, pointedly eyeing the numerous portraits hung on the walls.

Fuji had only smiled serenely. "Saa, no one's seen them but you and me, and no one will."

Ryoma didn't doubt it. If Fuji Syuusuke didn't want anyone to enter his apartment's private studio, then no one would. Those who knew him had learned better than to do something so directly against his wishes, and those who didn't—well, even they understood the unspoken threat those smiling eyes could hold, albeit it often being a subconscious understanding, survival instincts rising up in tandem with inbred politeness.

But if anyone other than Fuji or Ryoma _had_ seen the studio, there would've been no doubt in his or her mind that Fuji had two passions in his life and that both were displayed on those walls. One of the larger rooms in the apartment, in reality the spare bedroom with a few touch ups, the studio had a row of skinny, east-facing windows that let in the sun and flooded light across the multitude of prints covering the walls. Ryoma stared out of every one: the curve of his cheek as he looked away, the shadows playing behind his eyes as he gazed at the camera, the graceful lines of his body as he arched, mid-serve…

Fuji may have given up tennis in college, but he was quite glad Ryoma hadn't. Seigaku High's team was undoubtedly headed to the Nationals again this year with their golden-eyed and confident captain leading the way. That cocky smirk had become famous in recent years, gracing endless glossy covers as tennis magazines reported in awe of first Echizen Nanjirou's genius son and then of the rising star Japan's Seishun Gakuen. It would be only one more year before Echizen Ryoma turned pro, and the world was awaiting him anxiously.

(He hadn't asked Fuji to go with him. It was unfair, asking the other to leave a successful college education and budding photography career to travel the world in a hectic chaos of tours and tournaments. It wasn't his life and Fuji had plans of his own, after all…)

They didn't speak of it often.

Still, it pleased Fuji, now, to be able to see a side of tennis wonder Echizen Ryoma that the world was not privy to. That was why he hung his pictures in the studio, captured moments of the sulk in golden eyes or the softness in the curve of his smile, gentle and free of its more well-known expression of determination and challenge. He liked to see the curve of Ryoma's throat, pale skin and bones exposed by an unbuttoned jersey, knowing that he knew its shape, texture, and taste far better than anyone else could hope to.

His favorite portrait hung, life-size, beside the door on the side wall that led to his darkroom (the walk-in closet with alterations). Not precisely black-and-white, it was instead a muted harmony of pale grays and blues. Light played across Ryoma's bare back, highlighting his sleek and unmarked skin, a slice of white against the slate blue silks he was laying stomach-down on. Unkempt dark hair left shadows over his features and his lashes were lowered, eyes cast downward at the hands curled near his face. Though Ryoma himself was outlined clearly, the rest of the picture was vaguely blurry, the blues bleeding into grays that stained the edges of the portrait.

It was Fuji's favorite not only because Ryoma had posed nude, but because he had trusted Fuji enough to _agree_ to pose sans clothing. Even his expression, though lacking any emotive display of adoration or love, was a testament to his trust; he'd felt relaxed enough to deem it unnecessary to keep a wary eye on his boyfriend at all times. There was even something coy, Fuji mused, about the way he _didn't_ look at the camera. (It'd never be mistaken for shyness, though, not in Ryoma. Not now.)

He remembered the trust after the modeling session too, whispered along his skin.

_Hands sliding along his back, bare legs wrapped tight around him, hands clutching at his shoulders and leaving marks, even as those golden eyes peered up at him, heated. The openness of the desire in Ryoma's expression left him breathless, singing along his nerves until his blood rushed, hot, through him. _

_He leaned down to kiss that mouth, lips and tongue sliding over lips and tongue as his hands shifted restlessly up and down Ryoma's side, moving to the rhythm set by their hips. The silks were a mess beneath them, tangled into a hopeless pile that left him glad, remotely, that they had finished the shooting; it would've been impossible to rearrange the aesthetic folds. It was a only a distant thought, though, and his mind was filled with more urgent things like running his fingertips over Ryoma's nipple to draw out those low keens, feeling warm breaths panting over his ear as he traced his tongue along a perfect jawbone. _

_His head was spinning, heart pounding frantically, as everything—the jerk of Ryoma's hips against his own, the smell of sweat, the silk of skin, the sight of Ryoma arched under him, the heat, gods, rushing in his blood—spiraled him into a surreal world. A camera could never capture the perfection of this moment, for some things were too fleeting and others were too amorphous, ever-changing, shifting into newer worlds of pleasure, of fierce, unspoken love, of possession. An instance of heaven would never credit the vast, eternal expanses that stretched before and beyond it. _

_He felt Ryoma bite down on his neck, and he moaned, rainbows arching behind his eyes. Sight was too wanting a sense to encompass the experience of the fluttery butterflies of heat and desire and the gentle perfection of the smile that curved into his collarbone, unseen._

It recalled to him the fleeting perfection of their relationship as it was now. Five years had tempered it into the comfortable rightness of the present; no longer was it about Ryoma overcoming the team prodigy, or Fuji searching for someone brighter than the sun to block out the gray void when Tezuka had left. It had moved past the deliberate provocations, teasing that was flavored with bits of wasabi-like sadism, and past the resentment of wishes unfulfilled, to evolve into an equitable give-and-take.

There was no doubt that Fuji still adored teasing Ryoma, but it was a gentler sort of amusement, and Ryoma had learned to take it better as well. Their relationship, also, was now less about tennis and more about the two of them, something that had taken Ryoma a long time to come to terms with. Neither had expected to fall in love with the other, but life was unexpected in its surprise gifts, and they had adapted.

It hurt to think of the future, though, and the uncertainties it held, so they didn't. Ryoma grudgingly continued his education at Seigaku High, devoting the majority of his passions toward tennis and the team now under his guidance. Fuji continued his attendance at college, pleasing professors with his impeccable grades and stunning art critics with his vivid photographs. He continued his candid and postured shots of Ryoma, as well, and occasionally a new addition was made to the private collection in his studio.

At a glance, they would appear a normal (if slightly more extraordinary than usual) couple, barring the prejudices of the close-minded. But beneath the surface, behind the prints of embarrassed flushes and mischievous smiles, lay something vaster, endlessly wide and deep.

They were Fuji Syuusuke and Echizen Ryoma, photography genius and tennis wonder.

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To go: **Taste**, **Hear**, **Smell**, **Sight**, Touch

Please review!


	5. Touch

Fandom: Prince of Tennis  
Pairing: FujiRyo  
Rating: R  
Disclaimer: Not mine.

Note: Part 5 of 5 from the **Five Senses Arc**.  
Feedback: Yes, please.  
Archive: As you will. Just let me know.

Dedication: **Touch** was written for Wai of **Wai-Aki** for her birthday. :D :sparkly heart:

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**Touch  
**by Ryuuza 

It was rather fortunate for Ryoma that he was only watching a tape of Fuji's match with Hyotei's Jirou Agatuma when he was hit with a sudden rush of arousal. Had it happened during an actual match…well, he didn't want to consider the consequences there. All the possible outcomes included his complete mortification. Then again, while he was thankfully not in front of dozens of onlookers with no place to hide, it was less fortunate that he was crowded in a room of Seigaku regulars…with no place to hide.

Ryoma had spent the duration of the Fuji and Jirou match on the coaching bench, observing Seigaku's prodigy at work and being impressed despite himself. He'd been focused on the actual play then, rather than the smooth lines of Fuji's arms as he executed a perfect Hakugei, or the way his shirt flirted with the wind, fluttering up to expose the barest expanse of skin, or those intensely blue eyes…

He had to bite his tongue when that wash of awareness assailed him, a full-body attack that left him feeling as if every inch of skin was tingling. Thanking the gods that he hadn't been drinking anything at the time, Ryoma set his can of Ponta down on the table and cursed his traitorous body, willing it to behave. They were in the Kawamura sushi shop a year later, reliving the match because Eiji had stumbled upon a tape of the regional matches in his family's collection and decided their bi-monthly get-together was a good time as any to share it.

They'd already seen first and second doubles, and Kawamura had laughed sheepishly throughout his match with Kabaji, but now, halfway through Fuji's match with Jirou, Ryoma suddenly found himself panicked.

This, he thought in a fit of annoyance, was what came from dating that stupid tensai. You couldn't stop _thinking _about him. And wanting him.

Oh _gods_ did Ryoma want Fuji. Scooting a little further away from Momoshiro, who was sharing his side of the table, Ryoma's eyes left the Fuji on the television screen and came to a rest on the slim figure seated beside Kawamura and Tezuka. Unconsciously, Ryoma licked his lips as his gaze trailed down the smiling profile and lingered on the pale expanse of neck and collarbone exposed by Fuji's loosely buttoned shirt and vest.

Heat pooled in his stomach as he mentally undid the buttons, straddling Fuji's lap as he proceeded to leave marks down that chest.

Catching his breath, Ryoma hastily jerked his eyes back to the screen, hoping none of his senpai would notice the blush stealing across his face. Oh, but the screen didn't help at all, because Fuji was there too and looking just as sexy. There was something about the way he smiled, confident, and the way he handled his racket that just made Ryoma's blood rush downward. There was no question about it.

Ryoma groaned inwardly even as he fidgeted in his seat, averting his eyes from the screen. Watching Fuji play tennis had lately become a very big turn-on. It was like sex, almost, he thought, desperately wanting a private room where he could pounce on his boyfriend and let things take their course.

He wanted to _touch_ Fuji, dammit, and he was in the worst possible position for it.

In a public place. Surrounded by the former Seigaku team, for crying out loud. Five meters away from Fuji.

Ryoma truly hated his life at that moment.

His fingers curled as he ran his tongue nervously over his lips, at once concerned that his condition might be discovered and completely, totally aroused and pissed off that Fuji was so far away. He wanted his mouth on that skin, wanted his hands on it, wanted _his_ skin on it and god—this train of thought was not helping.

Briefly, he closed his eyes, and then suddenly, as if in a dream, he heard Fuji saying pleasantly, "Echizen, do you want another Ponta?"

His eyes flew open and flicked down to the half-full can of grape soda in front of him. Thinking quickly, rushed by need, he said, "Please," and lifted his gaze to meet Fuji's unwaveringly.

It seemed to him as if Fuji's smile widened slightly. "In that case," the prodigy said, soft voice almost purring, "I'll bring it to you." He rose to his feet and Ryoma tensed, eyes trained warily on Momoshiro and the others, hoping they would remain as oblivious as usual. He didn't think he could stand another five minutes in the room and remain casual; his hormones were on overdrive tonight, but they seemed to happen frequently nowadays with Fuji.

Five minutes later found Fuji and Ryoma in the stockroom of the restaurant. Not as romantic as a beach, or as comfortable as Fuji's bed, or even as daring as an empty classroom at school, but it would suffice for now. They were desperate, after all, and Ryoma was delighted to find that he wasn't the only one craving touch and skin and heat.

"Saa," murmured Fuji between kisses, hard and hot, "excited, Ryoma?"

In reply, Ryoma wrapped himself tighter around his boyfriend, hands sliding under Fuji's shirt. His head was spinning and it was difficult to breathe, he being as reluctant as he was to pull his mouth away from where it was currently very happily occupied. A small sound escaped him though and Fuji obligingly traced it back to its source, mouth latching onto Ryoma's throat.

"Aah" Ryoma said raggedly, feeling a warm tongue slide across his Adam's apple.

"Do you like watching me play tennis?" Fuji questioned, lips moving across skin as he spoke. His fingers spread comfortably over Ryoma's hips, pressing them together.

Ryoma refused to admit to anything, though he was fairly sure that Fuji already knew. "Do you like watching _me?_" he countered, staring down challengingly.

Fuji looked up from where he was tracing Ryoma's collarbone with his tongue, eyes lidded. "Quite," he purred. "The way you move is so sexy, Ryoma. Confident and aggressive and taunting." His mouth curved in a possessive little smile. "And it's nice to know that no matter how many opponents you play, or their skill level, in the end all of that, all of you, is mine." He stroked Ryoma's side lightly.

Ryoma's head fell back. "Hn," he replied, eyes shut and hands clenched in Fuji's shirt. "I like watching you play tennis too."

_For all the same reasons_, he added to himself, losing himself in Fuji's touch.

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To go: **Taste, Hear, Smell, Sight, Touch** DONE! 

Please review!


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